Thus confronted, Sir Stephen hastily disclaimed, “Oh, no—no, not at all; Melinda and I are old friends, is all.”
This was untrue, but more to the point, her comment threw him off so that he was blessedly silent for a few moments, and with the feeling that she had the upper hand for a change, Doyle took advantage. “How are you related to Acton? There’s little resemblance, I think.” As Acton was tall and darkly handsome, this could not be construed as a compliment.
Sir Stephen bowed his head in ironic acknowledgment. “We are second cousins; our grandfathers were brothers.”
Interestingly enough, this was not true.
CHAPTER 39
“MADAM,” MATHIS CALLED OUT. “I THOUGHT I’D FETCH you an umbrella.” The maidservant smiled at Sir Stephen as she approached from across the lawn. “I am so sorry to interrupt, but I think the rain is coming on.”
So—apparently she was not to remain alone in Sir Stephen’s company as the mists began to creep in, but Doyle was unalarmed; she had no sense that her companion meant her any harm, because in his eyes, she was soon to become irrelevant. And despite his general loathsomeness, he was not the type to take action; at heart he was a coward. Not like Acton, she thought; no one could ever accuse Acton—or his ancestors, for that matter—of being cowardly. Suddenly she had to pause for a moment, almost overwhelmed by her instinct, beating her over the head to pay attention. What? She thought in bewilderment; what is it I’m missing here? Acton is brave, Sir Stephen is not; Howard is brave, I am not—and neither is the vigilante killer. He’s a coward, and he needs my help.
“I should go back.” She spoke the words aloud without thinking; saints and holy angels, she needed to get back to the Met, to find out why this cold-blooded killer—who was a coward—needed her help.
The other two understandably interpreted Doyle’s remark as a desire to return to the manor house. “Of course,” Sir Stephen said, with a solicitous hand to her elbow. “It is growing quite cold.” He then cast an appreciative glance at Mathis as they turned to head back, and the maidservant smiled coyly in response, despite harboring some very unchristian thoughts about the man. Apparently, Sir Stephen hoped to spite Acton by cutting in with Mathis, too, and was unaware that Mathis would just as soon give him a swift knee to the groin. I’d so much rather be back in London, Doyle thought irritably, where at least the villains are forthright. Hard on this thought, the maid’s mobile pinged, and she entered a quick text without remark. My man’s checking up on me, thought Doyle, unaccountably annoyed. Perhaps I should return the favor.
“The dowager Lady Acton would like to give you a tour of the orangery today,” the maid offered. “Is this a convenient time?”
Doyle had no idea what an orangery was, but she knew for certain that she wasn’t going to get buttonholed by the stupid dowager again—now, there was a lesson learned. Instead, she replied a bit grimly, “I’d rather visit the archives, if you don’t mind.”
With a quick flash of alarm, the maid nodded in acquiescence. “Certainly, madam.”
“Best warn him,” Doyle advised.
Although Sir Stephen put a hand to his mouth, Mathis didn’t miss a beat, and pulled out her mobile to send a text. “As you say, madam.”
They returned to the house, and Hudson—after a bare moment’s hesitation—escorted her to the archives, which, he explained, were formerly the solarium. Doyle nodded in feigned interest, but was secretly rethinking her fit of temper after seeing the steward’s reaction; she shouldn’t be interrupting Acton at the risk of oversetting his plans. Although it wouldn’t hurt to appear childish and stupid, certainly; and it had the added benefit of authenticity, too.
Therefore, she stood on the threshold of the former solarium—whatever that was—and beheld Acton standing decorously across the room from Masterson, who was seated at the massive desk in the middle of the room, looking up with a smile but clearly very intent on her work and not at all interested in the tall man who happened to share the room with her. Doyle wasn’t fooled; the woman looked upon her visitor with equal parts pity and exultation.
“Kathleen,” said Acton, stepping toward her. “How nice of you to check in; I hope this means you are feeling more the thing.”
“Yes,” Doyle replied stiffly. “I was wonderin’ if I could have a word, Michael.”
“Of course.” With only the barest hint of reluctance, Acton accompanied her out into the hallway. “Careful what you say,” he murmured, very softly.
As there was no one within earshot, Doyle interpreted this to mean that the walls had ears, and that Sir Stephen and/or the dowager probably had their own recruits amongst the staff. “I’m sorry, Michael—I shouldn’t interrupt, but I was walkin’ out front, and thinkin’ about the vigilante killer. I think . . .”—she knit her brow, trying to put it into words—“I think he’s afraid, and I think I need to be takin’ a good hard look at this latest murder.”
If Acton thought this an odd topic for this particular moment in time, he gave no indication. Instead, he crossed his arms and asked in a very public-school voice, “Of what is he afraid?”
Poor man’s been drinking, she thought, and small blame to him. “ ‘Of’ I don’t know yet, my friend. But I’m dyin’ to find out if this is indeed an ABC murder.” She also teetered on the edge of telling him that she was going to do something drastic if she was forced to face another meal as the slighted bride, but she didn’t say it; she needed to drum up some patience from somewhere, and play her flippin’ part.
Acton drew his brows together, thinking over what she’d said. “Check in with the coroner about this latest murder; look for any discrepancies, however slight. And don’t overlook the usual motivations—money, or jealousy. The killer may be trying to appear a vigilante to distract from a motivation that is not so pure.”
She nodded, even though she knew down to the soles of her feet that these were indeed vigilante murders; no point in trying to explain the inexplicable to her better half. “Williams said the victim is still at the morgue, so I’ll be payin’ a little visit, first thing Monday.”
There was a small pause whilst they regarded each other, and much remained unspoken. He tilted his head toward the closed door. “Would you like to have a look ’round the archives?”
As his hand was nowhere near his chin, she agreed with a show of reluctance that was not feigned. “If I must.”
They re-entered the stone circular room, and Doyle dutifully listened as Acton described the various stages of the estate’s history, carefully shelved in fireproof cabinets, century by century. “Some of the earlier historical documents were lost to a fire, but Trestles has been fortunate in that most remain intact.”
Masterson couldn’t resist, and lifted her head to offer, “Yes, there was a fire in the original Norman section—a casualty of the Glorious Revolution in 1688.”
“No,” Doyle corrected her absently as she surveyed the rough-hewn walls that rose around her. “It was only a maidservant bein’ careless with a candle, and it was 1683.”
As the woman stared at her in surprise, Doyle decided it would probably be best to make an exit before she was tempted to explain that the room had actually started out life as a chapel, not a solarium, and so she took her leave of them, pleading a desire to have a lie-down.
Doyle returned to her rooms, berating herself for barging in the way she had, and relieved that Acton had not been unhappy about it. Hopefully, she looked the part of an unhappy wife on the cusp of having her dreams shattered, and just as hopefully, Acton would be done fawning over stupid Masterson sometime soon. With a sigh, she sank down on the edge of the bed and gazed out the diamond-paned windows to watch the rain fall on the gardens, trying not to think of the others throughout the centuries who’d sat here and done the same thing.
Mathis knocked softly, and entered to stand at respectful attention. “Lord Acton wonders if you’d rather have your dinner brought to your room, madam.”
“I would indeed,
Mathis. Thank you.” This was welcome news, and meant that her husband knew she was dreading the prospect, or he was worried she’d give the game away, since she’d already demonstrated her impulsive tendencies. Either way, she’d gratefully hunker down and go to bed early—tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.
It was not to be a peaceable night’s sleep, however. Once again, the knight stood before her, one hand on his sword whilst the other held a baby in the crook of his arm, which did not seem a very good idea, considering the rough hauberk he wore. And no one would think it very hygienic, as he was generally grimy.
“You again,” she said crossly. “Go ’way. I didn’t even know about Capability Brown and you’ve got Acton all worried up, you do. Why is that?”
There was no dog this time, only the muffled sound of voices in the background, speaking quietly, as though plotting in a church.
“I’m only pretend-brave,” she insisted. “And I don’t much like it here, but don’t tell Acton—although I think that’s the whole point, isn’t it? That you can’t tell Acton.”
Suddenly her eyes were wide-open as she stared into the moonlit darkness of her chamber, listening to the rain on the window and trying to catch her breath.
CHAPTER 40
GLUMLY, DOYLE SAT AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE AND TRIED TO ignore the discreet speculation directed her way by the silent servants, as well as the more overt speculation directed her way by the dead persons in the rafters. I can see why Rochester’s mad wife burned the place down, she thought as she picked at her poached eggs. The idea has a great deal of merit.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the entry of her husband, who leaned in to kiss her forehead and lift a triangle of toast from her plate. “Pack; we’re leaving.”
She stared at him, hardly bearing to hope. “Truly?”
“Truly,” he confirmed, taking a bite. “The sooner, the better.”
“Thank the saints. What do I say to your mother?”
“I will make a painfully transparent announcement that we are called away. You will make your apologies, but be subdued.”
“Are we breakin’ anythin’ this time?” She rather regretted missing her chance.
“Only metaphorically. I’ll meet you in the main hall in twenty minutes so that we can take our leave.”
Although she didn’t know what “metaphorically” meant, Doyle needed no further encouragement, and hurried up the stairway to her rooms, remembering to try to look upset as Mathis joined her to offer assistance. “Thank you for your help, Mathis; I hope I’ll be seein’ you again.” This said with fatalistic sadness.
“Sooner rather than later, I imagine,” was the enigmatic reply as the maid zipped the bag shut with an efficient movement. “Have a safe journey, madam.”
The footman carried her bag down the stairs, and at its foot stood Sir Stephen, feigning concern. “What is this I hear? You are cutting your visit short?”
“I think somethin’ has come up,” Doyle replied vaguely. “Somethin’ havin’ to do with work.”
“Is that so?” He attempted a jovial tone. “I hope it is nothing that requires another leap into the Thames.”
Doyle’s scalp prickled and she paused. “Perhaps it is. Nothin’ would surprise me, anymore.”
Apparently, he interpreted this remark as a desire to do away with herself, because he held out a hand in protest, vaguely alarmed, “Surely not; matters are not so bad, are they?”
He was half-hoping, but she assured him, “That’s not what I meant—and in any event, I’d not be tryin’ to trump God.”
His lips twisted into a thin smile. “Oh yes—you’re RC, how could I forget?”
But Doyle wasn’t really listening, because it had occurred to her that God worked in mysterious ways, and perhaps she shouldn’t be quite so short with the night visitor, however unwelcome his visits.
Any further conversation was cut short as Acton came into the great hall, flanked by his mother and Masterson, the latter trying to hide her disappointment at this unexpected turn of events behind a bright smile. “I should need only another weekend, I think, just to do some cross-indexing.”
“Of course,” said Acton in an offhand manner. “Only check in with mother, first.”
The dowager held out a formal hand to Doyle, her composed features masking her displeasure. “So nice to see you again, my dear; have a safe journey.”
“Thank you,” said Doyle in an equally polite tone. “The pleasure was mine.” Now there, that was a well-delivered line; not good at subterfuge, my eye.
The atmosphere was thick with undercurrents as Doyle followed the footman out the door to the waiting car while Masterson held Acton back for a moment, pleading with him in a low voice. She was probably trying to get him to stay—as if he would create such a scandal, even if he were truly at odds with his wife. No, my friend, thought Doyle with grim satisfaction, we are shaking the dust of this place from our sandals; I sincerely hope I never live to see you making up to my husband again.
Acton slid in behind the wheel, Hudson closed the door behind him, and they were away, the Range Rover’s tires crunching on the gravel. Warily, Doyle turned to take one last look at the manor house as they exited the gates, the massive front door barely visible at the end of the tree-lined entrance road. I am going to have to come to terms with Trestles, she thought; I’ve got to stop being such a flippin’ baby. Taking a breath, she recited, “I’m given to understand that you’re trustin’ someone you oughtn’t, and that drastic action may be needed.” She paused, thinking it over. “I think it has somethin’ to do with blackmail.”
He looked at her, profoundly surprised, and before she lost her nerve, she added, “And there’s a woman who’s not English, but no one seems to know this.”
He took her hand in his. “Are you all right?”
She blew a tendril of hair off her face with a quick breath. “Well, this weekend was a rare crack, and no mistakin’. Although on the bright side, I think I’m pregnant again.”
There was a small pause. Shouldn’t have sprung it on him like that, she thought with remorse; sometimes she forgot that she shouldn’t just speak her mind to him, willy-nilly.
After his initial surprise, she sensed a rush of immense satisfaction from her husband that he could not contain. “Is that so? Isn’t it too early to know?”
“We’ll see, then; I have it on good authority.” Yet again, she tried to suppress the Terrible Thought that had occurred to her whilst picking up the broken vase; that she’d been purposely thrown in Acton’s path for no other reason than to warn him of the plot against Howard—of the unknown national security threat—and that it hadn’t been a case of Acton falling for her like a ton of bricks on seeing her fair self passing beneath his window. It would explain a lot, though, and actually made a lot more sense than the idea that the reclusive Lord Acton suddenly decided to cast in his lot with an Irish baggage fresh from the Crime Academy.
No; she argued with herself fiercely—he loves me; I can feel it down to my bones. And if there was ever any doubt, one need only look to our sex life; surely that’s not a necessary part of the terrible you-were-only-needed-to-warn-Howard theory.
They drove for a few minutes in silence, Acton no doubt considering what she’d said, and trying to decide if she was certifiable. But instead, he asked, “Would you like to drive? This is a good place to practice.”
Doyle turned to him with delight, all depressing theories abandoned for the moment. “Oh—may I?”
“I have some calls to make.” He stopped the car, and they walked around to switch places. After he helped her adjust the seat, she began to drive; cautiously at first, and then with more confidence as it became clear there was little traffic and the road was fairly straight. Acton watched her for a few minutes and then—apparently satisfied that he wasn’t about to perish in a fiery crash—pulled out his mobile and scrolled for a number, waiting for the answer on the other end.
“It’s me.”
There was a pause, while Doyle could faintly hear Masterson’s voice, the words indistinguishable but the tone unmistakably relieved, now that Acton was shown to be still pursuing her despite his abrupt abandonment this morning.
He continued, “I’ve been thinking of what we discussed. You were amusing, but I’ve decided you are not worth the scandal. In any event, if I were to re-marry, I’d best find someone younger. So please do not contact me again.” He then rang off.
The brutal words were so completely at odds with his open pursuit of the woman over the past two days that Doyle took her eyes from the road for a moment to gaze upon him with shock and dismay. “Oh; oh—Michael; do you think that was wise? She’ll do her worst.”
“I hope so,” was his reply as he scrolled up a different number.
Doyle decided she’d best concentrate on driving, and turned her attention back to the road. She heard someone answer on the other end, and her husband said, “Is Previ in? This is Lord Acton.” Doyle had already noted that Acton tended to use his title when he was trying to get through to someone; it worked every time.
“Previ, it is Michael—Michael Sinclair. I am so sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I’m afraid something rather strange has come up.”
He listened, and then said with a touch of embarrassed reluctance, “I met a reporter from one of your papers, the London World News. Her name is Cassie Masterson; she covers major crimes.”
While he listened to the response, Doyle waited, her ears on the stretch.
“I know it sounds odd, but I believe she has become fixated on me; she keeps turning up.” He laughed, self-consciously. “It’s a bit embarrassing. You know I am newlywed, and my wife is very annoyed.”
Doyle’s mouth dropped open and Acton casually put a hand on the steering wheel to direct the car back into the correct lane.
“There may be a psychological condition, so I’ve handled her carefully, but I wonder if someone could—discreetly—look into it.” He sounded embarrassed again. “She has some very strange fantasies; believes I am an arms dealer, or some such thing. Thinks I am going to leave my wife for her.”
Murder in Hindsight (A New Scotland Yard Mystery Book 3) Page 24
